


denial

by another_pseud (gaysandcrime)



Series: The Seven Stage Experiment [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Denial, Holmes Brothers, Mycroft-centric, One Shot, POV Mycroft Holmes, Season/Series 04, Seven Stage Experiment, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 04:00:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13046052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaysandcrime/pseuds/another_pseud
Summary: Eurus decides to conduct an experiment; this is stage one.





	denial

**Author's Note:**

> POV Mycroft

Sherlock holds the gun out toward him, an expectant look on his face, and Mycroft wonders where exactly things had turned so horribly wrong. Maybe he shouldn't be so surprised, maybe he should have seen this coming; John, after all, hasn't batted an eyelash. But there is a moment of stillness, of blankness, when Sherlock turns and holds the gun out. Mycroft thinks that somehow in this moment of horror and fear, somehow his little brother has managed to make a joke. And yet, there is no levity in the serious lines of Sherlock's face, no amusement. Somehow, Sherlock is being serious. Mycroft wonders if he should feel flattered, and his stomach turns over unpleasantly at the idea of wanting what his brother is asking of him.

_What am I, that makes you ask this of me? What do you think I am?_

That Sherlock believes him capable of doing this, without pause, without deliberation...it tells Mycroft more about who he's become in appearance that anything else possibly could. And what it says about him makes him feel sick, makes him want to shatter something hard enough that his hands bleed. Makes him step back, away from the situation, trying to escape it all, trying to escape himself.

Makes him, for the first time in his life, want to pray for a better ending.  _I can't, I- I don't...I didn't ask for this._ He shakes his head, he can feel his thoughts and his fear, like bugs on his skin. Crawling over his arms, his face, his eyes, almost like they're real. He's sure Sherlock can see them, can feel the desperation in his gaze. He's so sure that Sherlock will turn away, any moment now, and stop this, stop the -- insult, offer, plea,  _prize_ \-- Mycroft isn't sure  _what_ it is, not when he now knows that Sherlock means it.

And when Sherlock doesn't turn away, doesn't lower his arm, just keeps looking; well, Mycroft feels a burst of hatred so dark, so  _deep,_ that he's sure he could take the gun right now and turn it on Sherlock instead of David. Or on himself.

He opens his eyes wider, looks  _closer,_ because he doesn't want to believe that Sherlock could see how afraid he is and still offer what he's offerring. Doesn't want to believe that, because it's  _Sherlock_ asking, his  _little brother_ \-- well, he doesn't want to think about what he might do, if truly pushed. Not because of David, not because of himself. Because he doesn't want what Sherlock believes him to be, to be true.  _Somewhere,_ he thinks, _somewhere I must have given the wrong impression. Why else would this make sense to everyone but me? Is this the person I've become? No, no it can't be..._

_It just can't be._

He wants to be better, to be  _more_ than what he seems, to Sherlock, to John. To himself. So he looks, really  _looks_ at Sherlock, tries to see what hidden emotion flashes inside of his storm cloud eyes, tries to read the light glinting off of his cheeks as everything is bathed in an urgent red. 

It's in that moment that he sees something change in Sherlock's face, in his eyes, something that could mean he passed whatever test Sherlock was giving him-- or that he failed it spectacularly. And it's that which frightens Mycroft more than anything he's been through in this terrifying ordeal; being unsure of whether his brother found him better or worse, passable or lacking.

And when Sherlock turns away to face John, swinging the gun around, Mycroft collapses backward against the wall. He's so afraid of it being the latter, that he nearly forgets where he is, what one of them must do. When John takes the gun, nearly immediately, Mycroft forgets to breathe. When David turns around and closes his eyes, Mycroft closes his eyes tigtly as well. He hears shuffling and the light turns red before his closed eyes and he can tell that David is now kneeling in the typical execution position favoured by those in terrorist groups. He can see the files that he keeps in the cabinet by his desk at the Office in Whitehall, the instances of terrorist action which he has condoned in order to vex some foriegn official, the deaths he's deemed necessary in order to get what he wants, what he needs, for the good of England and the British Nation. All those deaths suddenly feel like more than just a number on a page, and a guilt he hadn't thought himself capable of feeling rushes up the back of his throat in the form of stomach acid and bile. He gags quietly before swallowing it back down, trying to convince himself that this  _is_ necessary, that it's somehow different from all those other deaths,  _murders,_ because David has asked for it.

When the gun doesn't go off and he hears the shuffling steps of John as he steps backward, saying no, he can't do it, Mycroft finally allows himself a moment to breathe. He opens his eyes knowing that its over, and a wave of relief makes him feel light headed, almost hopeful.

The feeling doesn't last.

Death, dying: it turns out to be louder, messier, more real than he'd ever imagined it could be. He's affected, despite his fiercest attempts to detatch from it all, he's been affected all the way through and there's no way he's hidden that from anyone. It's a miracle he doesn't vomit from the sight; his legs feel shaky and his stomach heaves. More shocking, however, is the intense need he feels to turn away, for the fear he might start crying if he doesn't.


End file.
